


Saturday Morning

by The Key To Imagine (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:29:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10438734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/The%20Key%20To%20Imagine
Summary: Title: Saturday MorningRating: GWord Count: 532Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles, this fic is only a segment of my imagination.Summary: Ah! The Savage Young Beatles, yet again. Set in the winter after John and Paul met. Pre-slash.A/N: For my personal prompt “early”. I let myself be inspired by these lyrics by Eels.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Backup of old fic originally posted to the Beatles community JohnheartPaul, currently residing on key_to_imagine, currently in locked status. Summary contains the header as is on the LJ post.
> 
> Originally posted 14 JUNE 2009.

Saturday Morning  
  
When Paul awoke that morning, it was far too early. The sun hadn't decided to rise yet, and a last silver shimmering of the moon, slowly hiding behind the houses, was still visible when he peered through the slit in his curtain. It wasn't dark as night anymore, but still far too dark to really see anything.  
  
He wasn't quite sure what had awakened him. He could see the outline of John's form on the floor – his friend was staying over for a night, but he was still breathing deep and even, and snoring a little every now and then, and so Paul concluded it couldn't possibly be him. It couldn't be the birds chirping either, like in summer, because he didn't hear them now. And of course it couldn't be the daylight because it was night still. He lay still and listened carefully then, but didn't hear anyone walking around in the house, so it probably weren't his father or Mike either.  
  
There was _something_ though, something that tugged on his mind and stirred in his stomach in a rather annoying manner, but he couldn't quite grasp the thought that had to be somewhere, right alongside the feeling. And the more he thought about it, the more it was starting to irk him, too.  
  
It was six o'clock in the morning, and he was very much awake now. He sat up, propping the pillow up behind his back, and closed his eyes again, trying to recall where the feeling was coming from.   
  
Unexpectedly, he saw flashes and slithers of dreams pass by, stages and screams and other pieces that were too small to make a full memory off. The feeling in his stomach grew heavier at the images, and so Paul was pretty sure they were connected somehow. Then the pieces of the puzzle suddenly fell together, and he remembered the dream – even the little details. He could see himself on stage, with John standing beside him, the people in front of them screaming and shouting, while the smell of sweat and booze and true excitement hung heavy in the air. It was somewhere dark, some place he had never been to before, but it felt like where he belonged to be.   
  
His fingers started to itch for his guitar, and his heart rate sped up at the thought of playing for hundreds of excited people, or more, maybe.  
  
Then he remembered that they didn't play a lot, weren't exactly being booked, or even cheered at whenever they were playing. They didn't even have a steady band formation, and they didn't earn enough money to make a living out of – it was hardly enough to buy new strings. But the feeling was there, the feeling of hope and of belonging, and he didn't doubt they would make it, the way John didn't either.   
  
So maybe, he supposed, their time hadn't yet arrived. They would have to work a lot, play a lot and then more, but maybe, maybe after that long time that was still ahead of them...  
  
Maybe then they'd be the ones on that stage he dreamt about, making the people scream and their hearts sing.  
  
  



	2. Sunday Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Sunday Evening  
> Rating: G  
> Word Count: 456  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles, this fic is only a segment of my imagination.  
> A/N: For my personal prompt “late”, and a companion piece to 'Saturday Morning'. I'm honestly not sure how good this is, as I'm tired and not looking forward to tomorrow (whoever likes waking up at 5.30 is CRAZY, imho) and I kind of wanted to post a fic for Paul's bday.

Sunday Evening  
  
Paul hadn't gone to bed tonight. He didn't intend to do so any time soon, either.  
  
He was drunk, too. And, reflecting on the situation, on the past months and the way he had been feeling, he might as well be depressed. The way he was sitting against the wall, with his head leaning against the cool bricks and his back supported by a pillow, reminded him of something – no, some time.  
  
Such a long time ago, it seemed, while it really couldn't be more than a decade, give or take a few years.  
  
He remembered the way he'd been feeling back then, so full of hope, so certain his dreams would come true, and so far so good – they did. John had been by his side the entire time, as had music, and good – fantastic friends.   
  
They got what they wanted, their dreams come true.  
  
Now everything had shattered, fallen apart, and all that was left, was a gaping void inside and it hurt. There was the pressure on his chest, heavy and ever-present but worse right now. And right now, there was the searing hot burn at the back of his eyes, which was ridiculous because Paul didn't cry.   
  
There were the flashes of dreams interspersing his thoughts, and it made him feel worse and feel like getting even more sloshed than he was already.  
  
The yearning for how it used to be, wanting it back, was even worse. It weighed heavy upon his shoulders, and he knew it wouldn't ever be like that again, that it was over now and quite likely for good.  
  
He didn't care about the headache he'd undoubtedly have after waking up, or about a sore body because he would probably fall asleep right against the wall (not entirely unlike all those years back, when John woke him and he'd barely been able to do anything without pain and grimacing, to which he remembered John laughed so loudly and Paul had so easily forgiven him). He knew Linda would look at him, disappointed or sad, but with the ever-present understanding she seemed to carry with her, never judging him for his actions because she supported him so well.  
  
He just was so desperate for it to be back, the good old days in which they were not worried and unhurried and definitely not fighting each other as persons.  
  
Because while Paul was aware of the fact that all things come to an end – he had been hoping so frantically that this wouldn't, even when it was already busy to crash down all around him, that this would last forever, into eternity.  
  
Only could it never _be_ the truth, because he had never dreamt about it.


End file.
